


Perfect Wings

by rosewiththorns



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Bullying, Detroit Red Wings, Father and Son, Flashbacks, Friendship, Gen, Hiding, Hurt/Comfort, Laughter, Memories, Spanking, mentoring
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-16
Updated: 2016-04-16
Packaged: 2018-06-02 13:01:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,290
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6567391
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rosewiththorns/pseuds/rosewiththorns
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ever since he was little, Pavel hated being laughed at. Set during Pavel's rookie year with a flashback to his childhood. A tribute to Pavel and his wonderful career as a Red Wing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Perfect Wings

**Author's Note:**

> All dialogue in the flashback to Pavel's childhood is in Russian.

“I’m that kid on every playground  
who’s always chosen last…  
Don’t laugh at me. Don’t call me names.  
Don’t get your pleasure from my pain.  
In God’s eyes, we’re all the same.  
Some day we’ll all have perfect wings.”—Mark Willis, “Don’t Laugh at Me” 

Perfect Wings

Huddled against the cool, crimson leather back of a sofa in a dark meeting room at the Joe that was so silent he could hear each breath as it rattled out of his lungs, Pavel felt like a wounded animal driven to the ground in a hunt, only hoping to lick the fatal wounds and maintain some semblance of pride by dying alone. 

The quiet of the room only made the ringing laughter of Brett—who always patted him on the arm in the locker room with promises that they would score and pointed or drew pictures in the air to show Pavel what they should do on the ice—echo louder in his ears. He knew it had been a crazy move to attempt to pull off even in practice, and he wished that he had never even imagined doing so, because everyone had stared at him as if he had just turned into a giant slug, and Brett had thrown back his golden mane and laughed. That was the worst thing of all because it reminded him of how the parents and children from opposing teams had always mocked him for wearing his older sister’s figure skates to hockey games. 

Tears pricked at his eyes as he remembered those taunts and humiliations, and, before he knew it, he was once again that scrawny boy with jagged snowflakes spearing his burning cheeks, goading he pretended not to hear resounding in his ears like gunshots, and tears he couldn’t let fall because they would freeze on his eyelashes clouding his vision more than the snowfall…

“Figure-skater!” jeered a buck-toothed man bundled in a patched coat that suggested it was rather rich of him to be tormenting anyone on the basis of appearance—but, as Mama said, the pot forever wanted to accuse the kettle of blackness—and Pavel, aware the snide remark was directed at him, ducked his head and locked his gaze on the puck. 

Slipping his stick around the dark disc and shielding it with his slender body as he curled around a towering opposing defenseman with a buck-toothed leer that could have been inherited from the man who had disparaged him, Pavel fired the puck as hard as he could over the goalie’s shoulder and into the net, where it landed with a satisfying swish, but the cheers of his teammates could not drown out the cry of “Figure-skater!” that had swelled from the other team and their fans, a chilling chorus led by Mr. Bucktooth and Son.

When he left the neighborhood rink and hobbled up to his apartment on the hated figure-skates, it was the mockery, not the cunning goal, that he remembered as he yanked off the blades and tossed them at Larisa, snapping, “Take these back! I don’t want them anymore.” 

As Larisa ducked and the skates clattered to the floor, Papa, who had been glowering into a newspaper, lifted his face to pin his glare on Pavel, ordering sternly, “Pick those up this instant, son, and if I ever see you throw them again, you won’t be using them for a week.” 

“Good.” Pavel’s chin lifted to hide its trembling. “I don’t want to use them ever again, Papa.” 

“Show some respect.” Papa’s jaw tightened as he jabbed a finger at the skates on the floor. “Now pick those up as I told you to, Pavel.” 

“No.” His spine rigid despite his quaking knees, Pavel shook his head. “They deserve to be on the ground. They’re garbage.” 

“They aren’t garbage,” scolded Papa, seizing Pavel’s elbow and spinning him around to deliver a series of searing swats to the seat of Pavel’s pants as punctuation for his reprimand. “Until you earn enough money to buy your own skates, you won’t call these garbage and you’ll show some appreciation for them.” 

“Appreciation for what?” Pavel protested, resisting the temptation to cover his backside because he knew that would just prolong his punishment, though he couldn’t overcome the urge to argue when the shame his skates had put him through was still such a raw cut. “They’re figure skates. No hockey player wants figure skates, Papa.” 

He was resigned to the prospect of more spanks—probably to his bare bottom—as a consequence for a tongue he couldn’t control in his temper, but instead the smacks stopped as Papa pronounced firmly, “If you don’t want figure skates, you’ll have no figure skates and no hockey for a month.”

“A month?” gasped Pavel, trying to remember how many weeks were in a month and wondering if he could die from lack of hockey in that amount of time. 

“That’s right.” Papa nodded grimly. “No hockey and no skates for a month. By the end of it, you should appreciate hockey and skates more.” 

“I’m sorry, Papa.” In an effort to encourage Papa to relent to more reasonable discipline like a spanking, Pavel widened his eyes until they felt on the verge of rolling out of their sockets like marbles. “I already appreciate the skates—“ 

Curtailing Pavel’s pleas, Papa commented curtly, “Excellent. Then you can pick up the skates and put them away properly as a token of your appreciation.” 

Stifling a sigh at his father’s unyielding sentence, Pavel bent to scoop up the skates and place them carefully in the box by the door where they were stored, but as he returned them to the box and realized how long it would be before he could wear them again, he snuffled as though he were suddenly afflicted with a cold. 

“Pasha.” Papa’s tone was a caress, and his arms were wide, inviting a hug. “Come here.” 

Not needing to be told twice, Pavel collapsed into his father’s embrace and crumbled into tears, as Papa combed through his sweaty hair and murmured, “I don’t enjoy being tough on you, but I love you too much to let you act like a spoiled brat full of disobedience and ingratitude.” 

“I wasn’t trying to be bad.” Taking a deep breath in a desperate attempt to quiet his cries, Pavel found that his sobs only grew with the increased oxygen intake. “They were laughing at me and calling me figure-skater so I got mad about my skates, but I wasn't trying to be bad, Papa.” 

“Who was making fun of you?” pressed Papa, his hand wrapping around Pavel’s heaving shoulders. 

“Everyone.” Pavel swiped at his streaming eyes with his sleeve. “Everyone on the opposing team and their parents, anyway.” 

“Their taunts don’t mean anything, Pasha.” Papa ruffled Pavel’s hair. “They’re just jealous of your hockey abilities.” 

“Nobody is jealous of me, Papa.” Pavel couldn’t contain a snort at the notion. 

“Nonsense.” Suddenly Papa was gazing at him more seriously than he ever had in Pavel’s life, and Pavel felt his stomach changing to ice between heartbeats. “Dadya Vova tells me that you are the most gifted boy he has ever coached, and that he will recommend you for a sports school.” 

“I don’t want to go to a sports school.” Pavel had heard enough stories about coaches at sports schools slapping their athletes if they had trouble mastering skills and keeping kids on strict diets and exercise regimens that sounded about as fun as being torn apart by rabid dogs. “I want to stay home.” 

“You wouldn’t have to leave home to go to a sports school.” Papa’s answer wasn’t exactly reassuring. “If you went to a sports school, you’d get hockey skates from the government.” 

“If I’m getting hockey skates—“ Pavel pouted, wondering how he had gotten stuck with the worst of both worlds—“why am I being punished?” 

“At the sports school, you’ll have to do what you’re told when you’re told to do it,” Papa warned by way of an explanation. “The coaches there won’t stand for any arguing or complaining, Pasha.” 

Pavel, about to point out that sounded like torture more than play, bit his tongue, deciding that he had to get into the habit of not complaining that would be expected from him at the sports school…

A sharp rap on the conference room door jarred him back to the present as Brett’s voice called through the keyhole, “Open up, Pav. I know you’re in there.” 

Melting further into the sofa even though he was well-aware Brett wasn’t a superhero with infrared sight, Pavel kept his mouth shut, hoping that Brett, who was addicted to conversation, would get bored and go away if he didn’t receive the satisfaction of a response. 

“Come on.” Brett’s fist pounded at the door. “Let me in. I want to talk to you.” 

Not wishing to listen, Pavel ignored Brett’s entreaties for entry, glad that he had locked the door when he took refuge in the meeting room, until he heard Brett’s feet marching off to the shout, “I’ll get Stevie to make you open up, kid, if you won’t listen to me.” 

For all too brief an interval, Pavel was left mercifully alone, and then a strong knock on the door was accompanied by Steve’s voice—-a voice Pavel had to obey even if he didn’t want to—ordering, “Open the door for me, Pav.” 

Fighting every instinct inside that steamed he had to comply with the command of the Captain, Pavel remained where he was seated, his feet heavy as cement blocks on the carpeted floor. 

“Hiding won’t work this time,” observed Steve wryly, as the sound of a key fiddling in a lock scrapped against Pavel’s ears, abrasive as concrete. “I have the key to reach you, scamp.” 

When the door swung open, Pavel swallowed, afraid that he was about to be punished for his defiance and hiding. Brightness flooded the room—practically blinding him—as Steve flipped on the light switch and slid onto the couch behind which Pavel was concealing himself. 

“Off the floor, kid.” Steve tossed the words over his shoulder as he settled into the cushions. 

Reluctantly standing up, Pavel mumbled, tripping over his English, “I trouble, Stevie?” 

“You’re not trouble.” Lips quirking, Steve reached behind him to squeeze Pavel’s hands. “You’re not in trouble, either.” 

Fluent enough in English to understand that much at least, Pavel relaxed while Steve went on, “Tell me why you’ve locked yourself away in here.” 

“Brett laugh at me.” Pavel blinked back tears, forbidding himself to cry in front of the stoic man who would play through knee pain that would have crippled a lesser person. “Not with me. At me. Don’t like he laugh at me.” 

“Brett wanted to talk to you about that,” Steve remarked, rubbing at the nape of Pavel’s tense neck. “He says you wouldn’t let him in.” 

“Not want be laughed at again.” Pavel twisted out of Steve’s grasp. “Not stupid.” 

“He wasn’t laughing at you.” Steve stretched out a hand to clasp Pavel’s shoulder, but Pavel nimbly evaded him. 

“I there.” Pavel’s eyes narrowed. “He laugh.” 

“Yes, but not because he was making fun of you.” Steve’s earnest gaze locked on Pavel. “He was just so delighted by your skill that he laughed. He laughed because he was admiring you, not mocking you.” 

“Felt mocking.” Pavel nibbled at his lip. 

“Nobody on this team will ever mock you. If they do, I’ll talk some sense into them and make sure they apologize to you.” Steve patted Pavel on the cheek. “Now will you speak to Brett, Pav?” 

“Promise listen to him.” Pavel’s forehead knotted. “Not promise speak to him.” 

“That’s better than a sharp stick in the eye,” muttered Steve dryly, and Pavel reflected as Steve exited the room that English expressions were very weird. 

Sprawling out on the sofa to ensure that Brett couldn’t sit beside him without his consent, Pavel tried not to recall how it had felt to be so lonely in a crowd when everyone stared at him, and Brett, his supposed mentor, had turned traitor and laughed up a lung at him in front of the entire team. 

“Pav.” Brett’s voice, as usual, was his herald. “You’ve got to hear me out. I’m sorry if I hurt your feelings, but I wasn’t making fun of you. I was just in awe of your skill and smarts. You’re one of my favorite line mates ever. I’d never bully you, okay?” 

“Okay,” whispered Pavel, believing him at last. 

“You’re my kid.” Brett clapped Pavel on the knee. “Let an old goat enjoy his kid’s antics, and let him get off his aching legs. Move over before I bleat out my last breath.” 

Grinning crookedly, Pavel sat up enough to allow Brett to settle onto the sofa before lying back down so that his head rested on Brett’s lap. 

“Laughter isn’t an insult, scamp.” Brett’s fingers stroked Pavel’s brow. “Even if it is, the fool is the person who laughs at you.” 

“What you mean?” Pavel cocked his head in a question mark. 

“I mean could the person who laughed at you invent about a thousand different ways to score a shootout goal?” Brett smiled. 

“No.” Pavel chuckled. “I can’t neither.” 

“Could the person who laughed at you deke defensemen so bad their are found in the rafters?” Ignoring Pavel’s protest, Brett traced the shell of Pavel’s ear with a ginger finger. 

“No.” Pavel’s chuckle blossomed into a laugh. 

“Laughter is one of the best things in life.” Brett tapped Pavel’s nose. “Don’t stifle yours until you’re an old goat with more scars and bruises than your senile brain can count, kid.”


End file.
